


Everybody Needs a Hobby

by alex_caligari



Series: Another Way to Fly [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bondlock, Crossover, Drinking & Talking, Fake Character Death, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex_caligari/pseuds/alex_caligari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond is enjoying death. He's not the only one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody Needs a Hobby

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw Skyfall. And the scene with a presumed-dead Bond drinking in a (presumably) Turkish bar struck me as the perfect set-up for him to meet another dead British hero. I regret nothing.

The stranger had been watching him for half an hour. A foreigner, like himself, not a threat but still unsettling. He had ordered a single beer then sat in a booth alternating between playing with his phone and looking up whenever he moved.

_Fuck it,_ thought Bond.

He grabbed a second glass and a bottle of raki and walked over to the stranger, who watched him carefully. Bond poured two glasses and pushed one in front of the other man. He raised his glass in a toast. “To Queen and Country.”

The stranger paused, watching him, and Bond had felt that kind of gaze on him many times before, as often as not from the very people he was working with. “To fellow Englishmen,” the stranger said. He winced a little at the taste as he took a sip.

“You haven’t been here long,” Bond said. The man wasn’t a spy, that was certain, but he had a tightness around the eyes that spoke of tension, long nights, and always being on guard.

“I hope not to remain too long, either,” he said.

“James Bond,” he said, pouring a second drink.

“Sigerson.” A false name, but Bond didn’t press it. Sigerson finished off his first drink and allowed Bond to pour him another. “You’ve been shot,” he said.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Just below your right shoulder. Your movements are careful but halting. It’s healed enough for you to forget about it when you’re still, but as soon as you reach for something, the wound tugs.” Sigerson ran his eyes over Bond. “I’ve seen that sort of movement before.” His voice was factual but quiet. He was remembering something. His eyes snapped back up. “You’re not military.”

“And you’re supposed to be dead,” Bond said casually. He enjoyed the look of surprise and reined-in panic that flashed across Sigerson’s face before he controlled himself. If Bond was honest, it had been a shot in the dark. Bond had noticed the hasty haircut and coloured contacts, not to mention the false name and the wariness in his eyes. It wasn’t hard to see that the man was hiding from something.

Sigerson quickly turned the surprise into a sneer. “Who are you working for? You’re not an enemy; a minder then? Making sure I’m not overstretching myself?”

Bond smiled. Interesting. He thought that Bond had been sent to look after him. Bond didn’t know a lot about Sigerson’s background, other than what had been in the papers, so didn’t know what organization would be interested in him, either for help or hindrance.

“I’m not here to play nanny, Mr Sigerson,” he said. He leaned forward. “I’m dead, too.”

Sigerson blinked at that and smiled. “Of course.”

The two men drank in silence, each watching and revaluating the other. “You don’t intend to stay dead,” Sigerson said finally. It wasn’t a question. “You need that life back. This is too dull for you.”

Bond sidestepped that by saying, “You don’t look like you’re enjoying death, either.”

The sneer returned. “I have an objective. I have to stay dead until that’s completed. You’re choosing it, just to see what it’s like.” Sigerson watched him over the rim of his glass. “Sooner or later, something’s going to pull you back.”

“Everyone needs a hobby.” Bond drained the glass and stood up, deciding that all the posturing and enigmatic statements could be left to the spies. “Good luck, Mr Holmes,” he said, getting another shot of delight at the man’s barely-there scowl, “I don’t expect to meet you again.”

“Farewell, Mr Bond,” he said to his disappearing back. “Give my regards to M.”

"Only if you give mine to Mycroft."


End file.
